


Melt; Queliot

by SaccharineCyanide



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: M/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9903338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaccharineCyanide/pseuds/SaccharineCyanide
Summary: love, like magic, is not to be toyed with.





	

Quentin frowned as his fingers flew around the glass. He was supposed to make it melt, but so far all he's done is break the glass. Alice had left with Margo somewhere, so she wasn't an option to ask for help, and Penny was in the dorm. 

Of course, there was one more person to ask for assistance, but Quentin thought that he'd rather die than ask him. 

He sat watching Quentin struggle with his homework in the middle of the physical house common room. He was sipping from his enchanted flask. He was staring at Quentin's ass, and then pretending he wasn't as soon as Quentin glared at him. 

"You're almost there, you know," He purred, his voice as condescending as ever. "Try making your movements more clipped." The elegant savant smiled simply and took another sip from the flask. 

Quentin scowled, but heeded Eliot's advice. To his surprise, the edges of the glass seemed to soften. 

Eliot nodded. "Good. Try again." 

Rolling up his sleeves, Quentin went through the motions of the spell again, this time making his movements very small and tight. The bottom of the glass seemed to liquefy just a bit, and it's all Quentin could do to not scream in frustration. 

Eliot noticed this. "Do you want me to demonstrate and then build the glass again so you can copy my movements?" He asked, kindness tinting his voice a pale pink. 

Quentin exhaled, defeated. "Uh, yeah. Sure." 

Eliot rose to his full height and rolled back his sleeves with elegant little motions. It was no wonder he's such a talented magician. He took such care in everything he does, whether it's magical or not. 

It may have just been Quentin's overactive imagination, but he could see the glass shrink back with fear when Eliot approached the table it rested on. 

"Watch carefully." Eliot murmured. His hands rose and stayed poised in the air for a second, waiting for the magical energy to overcome his fingertips. Once Quentin could see his index and middle fingers glow, he went through the motions of the spell. 

His movements were fluid, but clipped as he wrapped his hands around each other just for them to pull apart and form a delicate diamond. In that moment, his entire body was perfectly in sync with his rapidly-moving hands. Quentin watched in awe. His eyes followed Eliot's fingernails as they clawed the air and produced enough energy to melt the glass. Finally, his hands pointed at the glass, which burst in a hot explosion of thick, molten liquid and slid slowly toward the edges of the table.

"Wow." Quentin breathed as Eliot ran a hand through his dark curls. 

With a flick of Eliot's wrist, the glass reconstructed as if nothing had ever happened.

"Now you try." He glanced at Quentin with bright amber eyes. 

Quentin swallowed and nods, getting himself into position to melt the glass. 

He copied Eliot's movements exactly, twirling and spinning his hands in a delicately fluid (yet clipped) way. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Eliot murmuring the steps to the spell as he performs them. It was nice to know that he wasn't entirely heartless when it came to this stuff. 

Quentin was so caught up in the steps that he didn't even realize when he had finished until a hot drop of burning glass dripped onto his shoe. "Shit!" He hissed and moved back. 

To his left, he heard Eliot's soft signature golf-clap. "Brava." The taller boy smirked. 

"That stuff has gotta be super hot..." Quentin exhaled feebly. 

With a pointed glance, Eliot took his slender index and middle fingers and dragged them through the river of burning-hot liquid. 

"Eliot!" Quentin cried. "Jesus Christ, get away from that!" 

With a small smile, Eliot twirled his glass-coated fingers in the air. "It's fine, Q." He said laughingly. "I can't get burned by this shit, and neither can you. It's enchanted so that stupid freshmen don't need skin grafts every time they fuck up."

Quentin blinked. "Oh." He said before chuckling. "Thanks, El." He ran his hands through his straight brown hair. "I owe you one." 

Eliot took a swig from his flask. "You're fine." He assured Quentin, the edges of his words softening with the gentle threat of a drunken slur. 

He pocketed the flask into the section of his vest where he stores his pocket watch. "After all, you didn't ask..." Eliot stepped delicately toward Quentin so that their chests are only an inch apart. "...and I couldn't have resisted such adorable frustration from you if I tried." 

Quentin gulped. "Eliot..." His cheeks reddened with embarrassment and, to his horror, slight arousal. Could he really be attracted to this monumental mess of a human being?

In Eliot's defense, he wasn't COMPLETELY a disaster. He got high marks, the highest in his class, and he could make a mean cocktail. 

But yeah, other than that, he was the personification of chaos. 

Eliot took his hands and slid them down Quentin's upper body. At first, Quentin thought it was a superficial thing, Eliot was just smoothing his shirt for him, but the taller magician's slender hands slid lower and gripped Quentin's ass. 

Quentin gazed at Eliot, tracing the outline of his long nose and delicate pink lips with his eyes. 

Slowly, the two boys' lips connected. Quentin couldn't help but push himself into Eliot's firm embrace. This fragile little game was harder than any spell he had ever practiced. Eliot seemed so experienced, so worldly about the art of love, but Quentin fumbled about the taller boy's body like he was unsure about what to do with it. 

Eliot noticed this. 

Discreetly, Eliot took Quentin's hand and placed it on the nape of his neck. "No one is an expert at first..." He slurred into the kiss as he guided Quentin's other hand to the small of his back. 

To express his thanks, Quentin flicked his tongue in and out of Eliot's soft lips, asking politely for entrance. He was starting to get the hang of this little game. 

Eliot pulled away. "Now, now, Quentin." He scolded, his low voice stern. 

Quentin blinked. What did he do wrong?

Eliot took his wrists tightly, removing them from the places he put them. "In a waltz, only the male leads." He warned. 

Quentin swallowed. "Yes..." Maybe this was going to be more difficult than he first thought. 

Eliot gripped Quentin's chin, forcing his face up to meet his own. "Yes what?"

"Yes, sir?" Quentin asked, trepidation painting his voice a navy blue. 

"That's it." Eliot dropped Quentin's chin and slapped his ass with a harsh flick of his wrist.

"Eliot, I don't--" Eliot cut Quentin off with another passionate, drunken kiss. Slowly, Quentin melted into the kiss as things begin to click in his head. 

Eliot had Margo, but after Mike, he didn't know what the hell to do with himself. He craved the touch of a comrade, the hot masculine affection that only comes from a lovestruck boy. 

Quentin noticed this. 

Suddenly, he lost himself within Eliot's touch. His grip was violent, forcing Quentin into his embrace like he would never get another chance to do this. Quentin wasn't even sure that Eliot was in control of what he's doing. At this point, he was just trying to feel something. 

"You're drunk..." Was all Quentin can choke out in response to Eliot's aggressive kiss. 

"I'm always drunk..." Eliot slurred laughingly. "Doesn't make a diff'rence." He batted his eyelashes at Quentin, his drawl abruptly becoming prominent. 

Suddenly, there was a shift in his attitude. His bright eyes dimmed and grew glazed. "Please..." He begged, sotto voce. Quentin had never heard Eliot beg before. This tiny, childlike whine was so unlike the taller boy to produce that it nearly scared him. 

Slowly, arousal rose in Quentin's stomach until all he could hear is the blood pounding in his ears. He had never been so turned on by anything--not even that racy Jane Chatwin fanart he happened to stumble across at age fourteen. 

He swallowed. "Yes..." Eliot's face brightened. 

"And you'll let me...?" The unspoken words in that sentence were most likely "control you," but Quentin said yes anyway. 

"Yes, sir." What the hell, Quentin thought. College was for trying new things, yeah?

Eliot exhaled shakily (the scent of smoke eddied around the two boys) and took Quentin's hand to lead him (In a waltz, only the male leads) to his bedroom. It occurred to Quentin that he'd never seen Eliot's bed before, and then it occurred to him that he was about to get laid, so it couldn't really matter.

Naturally, Eliot's room was immaculate. But, as mentioned, that wasn't the main focus here.

"Get on the bed." The infantile whine was gone from his voice, replaced with a rough, low command. Quentin obeyed, sitting with his back to the bed frame. 

"Good." Eliot growled and began to crawl onto the bed himself, almost straddling Quentin, but not quite. He sat with his knees on either side of the younger boy, and his hands framed his face with his thumbs massaging Quentin's jawline. Eliot's back curved in a perfect arch as he nipped at the buttons on Quentin's shirt playfully. 

Slowly, he began to make his way up Quentin's body. He undid each button of his shirt with his tongue, and it was so impressive that Quentin almost remarked on it, but he remembered that Eliot might just have tortured him if he spoke, so he held in his awe. 

Eliot's hands traveled the hot skin of Quentin's upper body with smooth dexterity. He snuck his hands behind Quentin's neck and pulled gently so that his lips could meet his collarbone. He nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, leaving marks of possession across Quentin's chest. At last, Quentin tilted his chin up to expose his windpipe, and Eliot attacked it with vicious fervor.

Quentin suppressed his gasps of pain and pleasure and loosened his muscles as he gained comfort around Eliot. His sexual appetite emanated from him in smoke-scented waves. Quentin was suddenly hyper-aware of everything around him. Eliot was as handsome and charming up close as at a distance...it's fascinating. 

He could feel the roughness of Eliot's movements on his neck, the fluidity of his motions as if he was performing a spell...as if Eliot wanted to make Quentin melt, wanted to make him erupt into a burst of molten liquid just like the glass. He could feel Eliot's twisted jaw resting on his collarbone as his warm, flexible tongue went to work. 

It only then occurred to Quentin that he should be doing something too. 

His nimble fingers worked off Eliot's purple tie and playfully tugged it so that Eliot lurched forward. The action on Quentin's neck got rougher. 

He quickly unbuttoned Eliot's dress shirt, revealing a surprisingly-toned upper body. Quentin never would have guessed. 

Slowly, sweetly, he disrobed his partner, letting himself melt in the embrace of this elegant prince. The drumbeats of their hearts grew louder as Eliot made his way down Quentin's body. He's so experienced, Quentin couldn't help thinking. 

"Fucking hell." Eliot hissed against Quentin's skin. "Stop thinking...talk to me, hit me, do something..." 

Quentin blinked. "Yes, sir." He choked out. He tangled his fingers in Eliot's glossy curls. Eliot chose that exact moment to suck hard on his hip, causing Quentin to jump and tug Eliot's hair hard. 

"Sorry!" He squeaked. To his surprise, Eliot looked up, his eyes glittering with pure arousal. 

"That's it." He growled. "Do it again." 

Quentin obeyed, and it might have been his imagination, but he could swear that he heard Eliot purr. 

"Talk to me..." Eliot commanded. "Call me your slut.." He effortlessly unzipped Quentin's slacks with his teeth.

Quentin's mouth lifted in a smirk. "You fucking slut." Eliot relished the way Quentin's tongue moved in his mouth as he degraded him. 

"You worthless whore." Quentin breathed heavily as Eliot tentatively teased his hardening arousal with his nimble tongue. 

"Oh, shit..." Quentin moaned. "Oh, Eliot..." 

This was obviously the response Eliot had been looking for, and he clutched Quentin's hips tightly just to have something to hold on to. 

He worked his mouth around Quentin's erection with ease--no small feat considering his crooked jaw--and even went so far as to pull away teasingly when he sees that Quentin is getting into it. 

Quentin looked down. "El..." He panted. "Eliot, keep going..." 

Eliot smiled coyly. "I'm sorry, what was that?" His lips shone with saliva and pre-cum, and they smirked maliciously as his tone shifted. "I want to see you beg." 

A flash of almost-anger flared in Quentin's chest, but it was soon overpowered by a wave of lust washing over him. "Please, God, Eliot..." He panted pathetically. "Suck me off...fuck me...please!"

Eliot waited patiently. "How bad do you want it." His eyes shone with pure, unbridled sadism and Quentin's hips gave an involuntary buck.

"God-fuck, Eliot, I need you--" Quentin hissed. He wasn't used to feeling so needy, so absolutely helpless in the presence of another person, and he melted under the pressure of it all. "Please, Eliot, I need you so bad..." 

It occurred to Quentin that Eliot could kill him right then and there. God knows why he thought of it, but it was true. He heard the story from Margo (Eliot had sworn her to secrecy, you'd think from years together that he would know that that meant nothing to the gossipy Margo) about how Eliot had killed Mike. He had used the incantation that Mayakovsky had drilled into them at Brakebills South to snap his neck and force it through his esophagus. One of the healing students had found him crumpled on the ground next to Mike's corpse and Dean's unconscious body. He was shaking violently and in shock, but he was alive. 

Someone with that much magical energy in their possession was to be feared--especially one as emotionally-repressed and unpredictable as Eliot.

And of course, the incredibly-dangerous magician had his tongue poised above Quentin's vulnerable dick. Perfect. 

Eliot's eyes slide shut and he maneuvered his twisted mouth around Quentin's hard-on with such fluid movements that Quentin was immersed in a sea of pleasure. He moaned and thrusted into Eliot's mouth, almost afraid that he'll hurt the older boy's odd jaw, but Eliot leaned forward with each lustful thrust, showing no sign of pain. 

A blissfully uncomfortable pressure built within Quentin's body, turning his muscles to stone with each buck of his hips. "El--" Quentin interrupted himself with an involuntary whimper. "I'm gonna...oh, fuck!" As soon as he uttered the words, the ball of pressure burst and Quentin released himself into Eliot's mouth. The pleasure is blinding, and Eliot spits Quentin's cum expertly into a nearby garbage can so he can grin. 

"Now," Eliot growled, a tint of amusement blooming around his words. "I believe you have some homework to finish." 

"I think I might love you." Quentin choked out. 

Eliot simply smiles.


End file.
